


Sparks

by blueygreeny



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, New Year's Eve, Post-Troubled Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 10:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30020319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueygreeny/pseuds/blueygreeny
Summary: A piece of fluff that I need to post to get it out of my head and make room for another no-doubt fluffy scenario.It's New Year's Eve and of course Strike and Robin have very glamorous plans...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55





	Sparks

The sun had long sunk below the trees whipping past on the edge of the motorway. Behind the steering wheel, Robin had settled into a steady speed back towards London. She wondered where she would find the energy for the evening ahead and whether she should be afraid of some of the hints Ilsa had been dropping about making it ‘a night to remember’. As much as the idea of simply a bath, a G&T and bed appealed, if she was honest it was never really in with a chance. Pleasurable anticipation flickered in Robin’s gut before a harsh noise, something like a hacking cough, interrupted her thoughts.

‘What’s up?’ Robin asked, instantly on edge. A reply was not forthcoming and Robin felt how hard she was gripping the wheel. ‘Come on, it’s not that long since we set off. You can’t need another break, can you?’ In the relative quiet that followed, Robin’s shoulders began to relax, when unexpectedly a wheezing sound surfaced.

‘No, oh no, no, don’t make that noise. Please, come on, I’ll pull over, you can have a breather.’

On a busy stretch of the M11 under a sky threatening rain, Robin Ellacott juddered to a stop.

Half an hour later Robin was on the phone for the fourth time in quick succession. She turned away from a lorry hurtling by with a finger in her other ear.

‘Hi. Are you heading over? I was going to stop somewhere and pick up beer and wine.

‘No, not on my way anywhere fast. I’ve a favour to ask.’

‘Where are you?’ Robin can hear the frown forming on the other end of the line.

‘Hard shoulder of the M11. The Land Rover —‘ there’s more of a catch to her voice than she would like. ‘It felt odd on the way to Cambridge this morning, then there were these whining noises when I came onto the motorway again and...it just...conked out. Tow truck is on the way.’ Robin aimed for brisk with her last words, mildly surprised at the sudden rush of emotion. She swallowed a lump that formed as she recalled way the faithful vehicle had shuddered when she vainly tried the ignition over and over again.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line but Robin heard movement and what sounded like a door opening. ‘I’m going to need more detail for where are you right now.’ Strike said, images of Robin on the side of a poorly lit road taking precedence over the sentimentality he’d caught in her voice. He had grabbed his coat, wallet and keys and was already out the door before he got a reply.

The services at Birchanger were completely cheerless and almost deserted. It looked like the staff had made a start on taking down the assorted Christmas decorations, though a length of dusty tinsel still framed the door Strike and Robin were blown through a few hours later. Strike’s BMW had needed petrol and Robin had hunger pangs, so after the Land Rover had been safely loaded onto the breakdown truck they had continued a short way down the motorway before turning off again.

‘I’ll be right back,’ Robin said, excusing herself and heading for the brightly lit Ladies sign.

‘No problem, I’ll get us something,’ Strike called after her.

His options from what was open were limited: either a Burger King or a small, soon-to-close Waitrose. A flash of inspiration led him to the latter as his phone began buzzing. Strike fished out the phone and was unsurprised by the caller.

‘Hi Ilsa,’ he said as he hooked a shopping basket over his other wrist and sized up the scant sandwich packets on display.

‘What do you mean “Robin and I won’t be able to make it”?’ Was the immediate and sharp response, giving Strike insight into how it would feel to face Ilsa in the dock.

‘I meant exactly what I said. Robin had car trouble. I picked her up half way back from Cambridge. No way are we going to make it to Octavia Street in time for the party now.’ Unimpressed by the sandwiches on offer, Strike chucked a few sausage rolls into the basket and wondered over to select from the crisps display.

‘I’m not sure I believe you Corm. Is she there? Are you sure you haven’t ... made other plans...?’ Strike was sure even the woman on the till eyeing him impatiently must have felt the undercurrent of repressed glee surging out of his mobile.

‘Ilsa...’ Strike’s warning tone didn’t have much impact, as his friend merrily talked over it. Meanwhile Strike jammed the phone between his shoulder and ear and grabbed a Twix and a Mars bar.

‘I know, I know, but it’s not like I’m embarrassing you in front of Robin this time, is it?’ Ilsa switched to a wheedling tone. ‘Throw me a bone Corm, if I can’t meddle in person, tell me what you have planned?’

‘Happy New Year, Ilsa. Give my best to Nick,’ Strike said shortly before hanging up with a smirk. He eyed the accumulated stodge and junk in the basket with approval. Almost perfect.

Robin exited the toilets having spent a little time giving herself a talking to, trying to shift the leaden feeling that had settled over her as she had watched the Land Rover being towed away. She scanned the food court for Strike and spotted him settled at a table against the solid black of the glass wall. The sweeping beams of a few headlights sliced through what she could see of the car park beyond. As Robin wound her way between the deserted tables Strike looked up and shot a grin her way. It struck like flint on steel in Robin’s chest and to hide her glowing cheeks she pretended to delve into her bag until she reached the table.

‘Ilsa’s sorry we won’t make it tonight,’ Strike said as she took the seat opposite him. Robin paused and knitted her brow for just a moment while unwinding her scarf from around her neck.

‘Oh, of course. Thanks for letting her know, not sure when it would have occurred to me.’ Robin tried and failed to suppress a yawn. ‘What time is it?’ She asked, half-heartedly pulling at her sleeve to see her watch.

‘Nearly 11.’ Strike replied taking a swig from a steaming paper cup. Robin finished another yawn and looked around for her own drink but the rest of the table was bare.

‘Where...?’

Spotting her confusion, Strike reached for a plastic bag between his legs. ‘Your choices are,’ he began with an extravagant rustling of the bag. ‘A cocktail,’ He clunked down a can of pre-mixed gin and tonic. ‘The house white,’ a mini sealed wine glass joined the line up. ‘Or your usual.’ A dinky champagne bottle emerged with a flourish.

‘I don’t think it quite qualifies as my usual,’ Robin protested with a laugh.

‘Seemed like you were developing a taste for it the past few months.’

‘Well, those were special occasions,’ she smiled softly. The recollection of the Rivoli bar and a blustery Brighton seafront where a case had taken them the day after Strike’s birthday plucked at them both for a moment. Robin was replaying certain well-worn moments when she heard a pop which seemed outrageously loud in the cavernous room.

‘Happy New Year,’ Strike said as he poured the foamy liquid into another paper cup. Robin was swift to collect it and tap it against his tea.

‘Happy New Year,’ she echoed and sipped the froth. ‘What is it they say about Private Detection? Come for the money, stay for the glamour?’ Robin raises her cup in a salute that takes in Strike, the shutters rolling closed on Waitrose and the rain that had begun to fall on the window next to them. The next sip she took doesn’t quite disguise an escaping sigh. ‘And now I’ll be starting the new year looking for a car.’

‘The garage might still be able to do something.’

‘The tow guy didn’t fill me with confidence and it just scraped through its MOT the other month. No, I need to think realistically. It’s just...I’ve had it a long time.’

‘It’s had a good innings then? All those gymkhanas,’ Strike smirked into his cup. Robin huffed a laugh.

‘Yes, well, it’s older than me. I practiced in the fields around my uncle’s farm in it long before I really should have been driving. Then, after uni...’ there was a fraction of a pause, ‘taking it for drives...it became my escape pod.’ Robin still associated settling into the Land Rover’s driving seat with escape onto wide open roads, even for the most mundane of trips. It occurred to her that having the Land Rover nearby, ready for an all-night drive to Masham if needed, had been a reassuring back-up after her wedding day as well. _Some detective you are not paying attention to that clue_ , she shook her head internally. She gave the contents of the gently fizzing cup as much attention as if she were reading tea leaves.

The unwelcome memories were interrupted by Strike. ‘You’ve reminded me of Ted’s old Morris Minor. Gorgeous beast it was. The gleam on the hubcaps was something to behold.’ He returned Robin’s smile, pleased that his diversionary reminiscence seemed to have worked. He found himself continuing in more of a spirit of sharing than trying to deflect Robin’s thoughts. ‘Seeing that turn up when I was a kid, knowing it was going to take Lucy and me _home_ ,’ the emphasis on the last word isn’t lost on Robin, ‘well, escape pod is probably how I would have described it at the time.’

Strike and Robin slipped into quiet thoughts on opposite sides of the table. Their arms synchronised bringing cups to mouths as they untangled themselves from the grip of those recollections. They were more united than they realised in the sense of where ‘home’ was for them now. 

Inside her bag, Robin’s phone buzzed. Reaching for it she could see that a few messages had stacked up, most of them formulaic greetings anticipating midnight. Top of the pile was a text from Ilsa.

_Car trouble? A likely story :p I’m sure C will make sure you’re home safe, and I’ll deploy my super sexy playlist another time Ix_

Robin tried to push down a smile but it was irresistibly buoyed upward by the bubbles in her drink. She tucked her phone back into her bag and faced Strike once more. ‘My stomach thinks my throat is cut. Please tell me there are crisps in that bag.’

Back on the road, the BMW carved a smooth line down the nearly empty motorway. Cocooned in the warmth of the car with Robin in the passenger seat, Strike allowed himself to articulate that this was the most content he had been since before Christmas, despite the days of holiday he and Robin had claimed for themselves. God knows they had earned them this year between the Bamborough case, Robin’s divorce and Joan. The lights flashing by outside strobed across Robin’s face and neck as she finished the can of gin and tonic and impatiently tuned to another radio station.

‘What the - Oasis? What is wrong with you people? It’s New Year’s Eve, where’s the cheese?’ Robin declared impatiently, continuing her shuffling search. Strike grinned. It seemed that despite the crisps, sausage roll and chocolate, Robin was definitely tipsy.

‘There,’ she settled back to some crooning pop on low volume, ‘that’ll do for now. You don’t mind me riffling do you?’

‘No, feel free.’

‘Good. I can’t remember the last time you drove, to be honest. My hands don’t know what do with themselves.’ Her head dropped back and she began to idly drum her fingers on the unit between the seats. The vibration travelled up the tip of Strike’s elbow and shivered across his shoulders in a thoroughly distracting way. He shook himself before answering.

‘Well between today and the drive back from Masham, you deserve a break.’

‘The drive from Masham wasn’t hard work, it was a blessed relief. I meant to give myself the gift of a year off from an Ellacott Christmas but...’ Robin shrugged and looked determinedly out of her window.

Strike left a beat of silence. He was painfully reminded of the stilted conversations he had shared with Greg this Christmas and the wall of noise that were his nephews combined. But there had been those texts flying back and forth to Yorkshire, so it hadn’t been completely dire. In them they had dissected family traditions ( _You wait until after lunch to open presents? Is everyone from Yorkshire a masochist?_ ); had shared a running commentary on festive TV ( _Christmas isn’t Christmas without a romp of a Dr Who special. And yes, Matt Smith is my favourite. Bow ties are cool._ ); and, inspired by a new fad of Jack’s, they had challenged each other with outlandish scenarios.

‘Would you rather...’ Strike trailed off while he refined his thoughts and overtook a dawdling Fiesta. Robin faced him again with her smile stretching wide. A small thrill crackled through him at having her attention. ‘Would you rather be drooled on, sat on and shat on all day by little Annabel or...’ Strike wrinkled up his face in a way that made his opinion clear, ‘share a toothbrush with Pat.’

‘Oi! Not nice,’ Robin kicked off her boots and hitched up her feet while laughing and shaking her head. She seemed to be giving it careful consideration however, before her phone let out a series of squawks.

‘Psst, saved by the bloody bell,’ Strike tutted, shifting in his seat.

‘Yeah, yeah, not done with you yet,’ she muttered playfully as she dragged the phone out, more pings emitting all the while.

‘Jeez, Ilsa.’ A hiccuping laugh followed.

‘What? What’s she sent?’ Strike asked, eyes drawn from the road for a moment to Robin’s hand over her lips as she continued to consider her phone[.](http://www.apple.com)

‘Just a silly message,’ she replied evasively, ‘but then a lot of photos. I think it’s Nick dancing.’ She peered closer. ‘God, I hope he’s dancing.’

They were both distracted by a flash that seemed to hold the moment inside the car in freeze frame. ‘Fireworks!’ Robin breathed.

Another bloom of light and colour exploded ahead framed by the windscreen. The red and gold fell apart with a reverberating rumble before being replaced by blue fizzing in all directions. Robin was bent forward, her eyes drinking in the display. Strike eased off the accelerator, happy to switch to the inside lane and draw out the moment for her, and perhaps allow himself the chance to catch that soft smile a few more times.

‘I bloody love fireworks,’ Robin eventually murmured, folding her long legs under herself. ‘Always have, always will.’ Another volley of illuminations soared into the sky on Robin’s side of the car.

Strike ah-ha-ed a vague reply. Truthfully, fireworks could jar if he wasn’t expecting them, another lingering reminder of that fateful journey with Antis and Topley, but in the face of Robin’s tipsy vehemence he let it slide. Robin didn’t need much encouragement to continue her train of thought in any case.

‘I even still love sparklers. I know they’re meant for kids,’ she countered to an argument Strike hadn’t voiced, ‘but I’m a sucker for all that light and sound contained in such a uninspiring looking stick.’ She settled her head back against the window and resumed, albeit slowly. ‘Proper fireworks though are something else. It’s like they can take you out of yourself for a while, y’know? They’re so big and in-your-face and...’ she groped for the right word, ‘unapologetic, I guess.’

Strike smiled and threw another glance Robin’s way. She seemed arrested on the verge of more dubious eloquence, as if she had just joined the dots on a case and the connection she had formed was pulling a smirk onto her face. ‘Big and unapologetic,’ she slowly echoed, biting her lip as she seemed to ruminate. Right then he longed for a red light or a traffic jam to allow him to watch her uninterrupted. He held off as long as possible but when his eyes were pulled back to Robin, Strike found she was already considering him closely. The moment unfurled and a definite _something_ crackled in the air, before Robin blinked and turned her temple against the window once again. Strike’s attention snapped back to the road. Thank fuck there was still hardly any traffic. He noted the progress they had made, the view outside getting increasingly built up. The hankering for a cigarette was growing, even a breath of nicotine-free air would do. Abruptly he craved for a completely different landscape.

‘The fireworks in St Mawes are some of the best you could ever see,’ Strike said fumbling for the conversational thread. ‘No tower blocks in the way for a start, and it feels like the entire town turns out at the harbour,’ He slowed for a set of traffic lights and to Robin’s ear his voice softened further. ‘Ted sometimes took us out on the boat to watch them. Best seats in the house and double the display on a calm night. I can remember wanting to hop over the side and go for a walk. See what it was like in the middle of each burst of colour. Dodging showers of sparks.’ The traffic lights shuffled though red and amber before the beam of green prompted Strike to press the accelerator once again.

‘That sounds lovely,’ Robin chimed in, her voice just discernible over the purr of the engine.

Strike nodded absently. While he continued to pilot the car smoothly towards Earl’s Court, in his mind Strike was wandering the steep lanes of St Mawes. At another traffic light he indulged himself by imagining his arm slung around a pair of shoulders, gently steering a golden head towards the waterfront. _Why not?_ He asked himself, the picture teasing him with its colour and clarity.

But for now it was New Year's Eve in the capital. The crowds for the fireworks were dispersing from the ticketed areas between Blackfriars and Lambeth Bridge. Knots of revellers littered the riverside pavement with rowdy shouts and one or two couples were discernible in the shadows under the trees as the car sped by.

Strike spared a glance for the stretch of water Robin was looking out on. Battersea Power Station was lit up like it was also heading out on the town: a grande dame gauging her appearance not-so-subtly in the mirrored depths of the Thames. The lights and bustle had given Strike a shot of ebullience and no contrary voice piped up when he rolled that _why not_ around in his mind again. He took a breath to break the silence.

‘So, how about this time next year I improve on the service station and show you the bright lights of St Mawes?’ He was determined to keep his eyes front. ‘What d’you think?’

No reply. His stomach swooped. The lengthening silence built like pressure inside that stupid little bottle of champagne earlier. Strike could feel his pulse knocking in his throat. They would be turning onto Finborough Road before long, he needed to try and get the conversation back on track. ‘Robin?’ he asked. Hurriedly he peered over at her. The relaxed line of her shoulders, the now-awkward angle of her neck and the gentle misting of her breath on the window all confirmed that Robin was none the wiser about Strike’s invitation. As he swung the car away from the river the nerves were replaced by keen disappointment.

Her neck creaked in protest as Robin surfaced. The flares of colour mirrored on a rippling surface drained away, though the vague sense of an arm around her shifted into the sensation of a warm hand gently shaking her shoulder. Her sleep-addled brain desperately wanted it to knead the knot between ear and shoulder. Reluctantly her eyes opened and she shifted carefully to take in the dim interior of the car. Strike’s face was broken down into planes of light and hollows of shadow thanks to a nearby lamppost.

‘Sorry, I —’ a belated yawn forced its way out and Robin hissed as her neck spasmed again.

‘Not a problem. Let’s get you in,’ Strike replied, opening his door. By the time he reached the other side, Robin had her boots back on her feet and a wince on her face.

‘Sat stupidly,’ she apologised, ‘my leg is numb.’ Gingerly she planted both feet on the curb and accepted Strike’s proffered hand. He levered her up but Robin’s weak leg gave way and she veered onto his sturdy chest. She was about to pinball herself away in mortification when Strike’s hands clamped around her upper arms and forced the air from her lungs in a feeble squeak.

‘Easy does it, Ellacott.’ Heat seeped into her arms where he held her. She was close enough to feel the warmth of his breath misting into the chill beyond their bubble. The compulsion to feel the rasp of his stubble on her palm flashed through her mind. He continued, seemingly oblivious to how Robin had stalled. ‘Lightweight. A little grape and grain and you’re weaving through the streets of London completely rat-arsed.’

The teasing tone prompted Robin to squeeze her eyes shut and drag in a much-needed breath. Which did precisely nothing to ease the sudden light-headedness that threatened, if anything it vented the feelings kindling inside. Gone was the ease of the car journey, the effortless give-and-take from which she had slipped into peaceful sleep. Now a bundle of energy was ricochetting around her stomach and looking for purchase in her fingers. They were in danger of grabbing the tantalisingly close lapels on Strike’s coat.

‘You OK?’ Strike asked, slightly more seriously.

‘Yes, fine. Absolutely fine.’ Her eyes were open again at least Strike saw, though avoiding his own. Until suddenly they weren’t. As they snapped up and captured his gaze, he had a presentiment of how they would flutter watching him watch her if he drifted closer. But then she grimaced and pulled herself away to lean back on the car door.

‘Aggh, bugger.’

‘Something I said?’ Strike asked mildly.

‘Bloody pins and needles,’ was the terse response, fuelled by hot embarrassment.

‘C’mere,’ Strike said, instantly swooping to her side, wrapping his left arm around Robin’s waist and draping her right arm over his shoulder. He guided her along the short stretch of pavement, compensating for the listing hops that alternated with Robin’s steps and trying to not mentally map the curve of her hip.

The door was finally in sight. Robin’s leg was returning to normal, the bundle of energy was under control at an easy simmer and reluctantly she eased herself away from Strike’s support and warmth.

‘If we keep the training up, y’know,’ Strike declared, leaning against the door frame, ‘the three-legged race gold is ours for the taking.’

Robin chuckled and fished in her bag for her keys, formulating what she was about to say.

‘Thanks for tonight.’

‘No worries.’ Strike smiled. ‘Happy New Year again.’

Robin swallowed hurriedly. Giving in to her tingling fingers she clutched at his sleeve and made herself speak. ‘I’m going to be up for ages after that nap. You could come in for a drink?’

The touch set off a cascade of sparks up Strike’s arm. The smile grew wider. ‘Sounds nice.’

**Author's Note:**

> Pure fluff but it has been wonderful to escape into this little fic, all the other fantastic stories on AO3 and the Denmark Street Discord over the past few weeks. More ideas are percolating which I hope will see the light of day before too long 🤞


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